


Psychopathic Heroes

by gaydaractivate04



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brotherly Love, Demons, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Torture, Original Fiction, POV Outsider, Protective Sam Winchester, Psycopaths, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-02-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:02:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22075183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaractivate04/pseuds/gaydaractivate04
Summary: Agent Henrikson and his team go into a warehouse, following leads to the Winchester brothers.He ends up finding them, just not in the way he imagined.If 'Jus In Bello' never happened and instead they learned about demons in a different way.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 187





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my dudes. Please excuse the not as great writing for the first half of chapter one. It was very late when I started this story and I'm to lazy to rewrite 4 pages worth of it.
> 
> Also: This is sort of a different take on how Henrikson views the brothers. In 'Jus In Bello' he kinda ends up befriending them and trusting them. 
> 
> In this story, he trusts them just barely, and keeps focused on the idea that they ARE psychopaths, and dangerous ones at that.

_They had to be here this time._ The tip had given them a location _and_ a time on the Winchester brothers and Henrikson wasn’t about to lose them again. The Winchesters were smarter than his team had originally thought, but now they were careful.

He had two of his best men for close combat and the most skilled officer he could find to assist with the ambush. The anonymous tip had said Sam and Dean would be staking out in an abandoned warehouse, which they were currently sweeping as quietly as humanly possible. 

Henrikson clutched his rifle a little tighter as a quiet clatter echoed through the large space. It was sharp, sounding like metal on metal, which really pointed to one thing. 

They were here. 

And they were armed. 

He signaled to his group to split, one of his men coming with him while the other two headed towards the left, keeping low to the ground.

A shadow flitted by the edge of his vision, too fast to follow. Henrikson swung to a crouched position, his gun up and ready.

Nothing.

His partner, Agent Scott, had stopped too and now signaled him, asking if he’d seen the targets. Henrikson glanced once more towards the shadows before shaking his head and moving forward.

He knew he’d made a mistake the moment he heard the shouting.

They were cries of alarm, coming from the far wall, his sight blocked by old crates. It was the other half of the team, someone had gotten the drop on them. 

The shouts were silenced quickly.

Agent Henrikson cursed under his breath before breaking into a low sprint, taking corners sharply, gun at the ready. Agent Scott covered his six, watching every shadow and turn as they ran. 

When they arrived, the two agents didn’t find anything. Not one smear of blood, no traces of fabric or dead bodies clad in black. A quick sweep revealed just as much. It seemed that they had underestimated the brothers once again. 

Just as he was preparing to give new orders, maybe call in an extraction team, he heard another shout from behind him. Henrikson swung around just in time to see his partner dragged out of view. He lunged forward, not prepared to lose another one of his men, before something hard hit the back of his head and the world went grey and fuzzy, then turned black as he pitched towards the floor.

———————-

The first thing he noticed was the stench. The thick, stifling, smell of iron. 

Of blood.

There was an underlying scent of urine and dirt, stuffing it’s way into his nose. The air around him was cool, although there wasn’t a breeze of any kind to accompany it. 

Henrikson realized he was laying on his stomach, face down on a hard surface. Stifling a groan, he made an attempt to roll onto his back, forcing his eyes open as he did.

Immediately, Victor was assaulted with a pounding headache, which stemmed from the back of his skull, the very place he was struck. 

He squinted through the pain, forcing himself to take stock of the room. If you could even call it that. 

He, along with the three other officers that accompanied him for the ambush, were in a small, dimly lit cell, with two walls made completely of bars. One faced outward, towards another set of cells, which Henrikson could see little of. The other was the wall to fourth cell and he could just barely make out the form of a person laying on their side within it. He tried to see if they were breathing, but his vision wasn’t focusing well enough to tell.

In between the cells was a narrow walkway of concrete, which ended at a rack covered in rusting metal tools. He honestly did not want to know what they were used for. 

It was the perfect dungeon for a villain from a movie.

Henrikson heard a groan from behind him and swung around, finding his teammates in various states of awakening. Brian Scott was the one who’d groaned and he was now pushing himself upright, one hand rubbing the back of his head.

“Scott? What can you remember?” The agent blinked blearily up at him before attempting to speak. 

“I…” Scott’s voice was rough and scratchy, forcing him to swallow several times before clearing his throat. “I remember the warehouse and we heard a scream, ran over, and something... _someone_ came behind me and bashed me on the head.” 

“It’s the same for me,” came another voice, Agent Holly Laurens, who’d elected to join the mission when she’d heard who Henrikson was after. She had only joined the force a couple years ago but graduated from training at the top of her class and was considered one of the best agents in the field. 

She was sitting cross legged on the stone floor, a smear of blood on her temple. Next to her, the final member of their team was starting to stir from his place on the ground. As he began to wake up, Henrikson moved to check on the two of them. Crouching down on the cold floor, he shook the agent’s shoulder, letting go when he feebly attempted to shake his hand off.

“Welcome to the land of the living.” Agent Carl Roth, the fourth member, glared up at him. They had hated each other since the moment they met, Carl’s temper fighting with Henrikson’s contempt towards him.

“Where the hell are we?” It was Scott, trying to diffuse the tension between the two older agents. He was standing now, leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed. Henrikson stood too, his head giving a throb at the abrupt movement. Just as he was about to respond, maybe try and find some reason of why they were in a _dungeon_ , when the metal door at the other end of the hallway unlocked with a clank and swung open.

The agents shuffled back to the wall, squinting against the sudden beam of bright light. Instead of the flood of armed men they expected, a well dressed woman gracefully stepped through the door. 

She was wearing a dark suit and had her blonde hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head. The woman surveyed the agents with a small smirk on her face as she moved closer. Behind her followed two men, both in suits as well. Hendrickson noticed that they each wore an earpiece behind their left ear. 

“Good morning my friends.” Her voice was higher than they expected, with a simpering, girlish edge to it. “How are we all doing?” Her _friends_ stared back at her and Henrikson felt the floor sway under him. She was Jeanene Roberts, a secretary from England who worked in the same headquarters that he did; she had helped him chase down every scrap of information on the Winchester’s when he had first started on their case. Laurens recognized her at the same time he did.

“Roberts?” Agent Laurens’ voice was colored with disbelief and horror. “What are you doing here?” Jeanene sneered at her and leaned towards the bars of their cell. 

“Ms. Jeanene Roberts isn’t here right now, I’m afraid.” She grinned down at them, but there was something about it that looked so alien- _so wrong-_ and Agent Henrikson wasn’t the only one who flinched. “I’m sure you’ll find out what that means soon enough.” Jeane- _the creature_ turned to leave, the men who came after her not having moved from their posts at the doorway. 

Agent Roth stood now, moving as close as he could get to the woman beyond the cell. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean?” He shouted this belligerently, the built up stress of their situation bleeding into his voice. Jeanene turned quickly, with grace and precision that didn’t match the bubbly secretary from Headquarters. 

“You do have a couple of other friends in here, you know.” She cast an elegant hand towards the wall of bars opposite to them. “You’re already acquainted, aren’t you?” Carl looked like he wanted to throttle her through the gaps in the bars, his knuckles white around the steel. Henrikson quickly caught him by the shoulder and (none too gently) pulled him back. They were already without their guns and body armour, they didn’t need to lose a team member on top of that. Roth resisted for a moment, his legs locking up, before he stumbled away, towards the far wall. 

Jeanine sneered at him, somehow managing to look down on the agent even though she was a good half foot shorter. “It would do you good not to let your temper off its leash.” For a moment it didn’t even look human, that expression on her face. Then she smirked again and the otherworldly anger was gone. “Have fun and do try not to kill each other while we’re gone.”

With that she swept out of the room, her accomplices following after her. One paused and set a couple of plastic water bottles and granola bars next to their cell, as if in afterthought. It was dead silent as the locks engaged and the footsteps faded away. 

Of course, the first to break the stillness was Carl Roth. “What the hell was she talking about?” As if on cue, the shuffling of fabric was heard from the cell across the room. A tall figure stood, swaying as they braced themself against the wall. 

Slowly, the federal agents rose, all moving towards the bars, squinting into the darkness in vain. Henrikson called out to the person, his concern rising as they stumbled to their knees, a faint groan carrying to his ears.

“There’s no need to be afraid, we are federal agents and we’ll get you out of here.” God knows who’s in there, if these people are attacking and imprisoning armed forces, there’s nothing stopping them from doing the same to civilians. 

The person seemed to steady at those words, pushing themself back to their feet and approaching the bars. The only part of them exposed to the meager light in the room was their knuckles, which were bruised and bleeding and clenched the metal like a lifeline. Their voice was scratchy and thick- _and decidedly male-_ as he answered. 

“Agent Henrikson?”

The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn’t place it. “Do I know you?” Then the last face he had expected to see leaned farther into the light. 

As beaten and bruised as it was, he’d recognize it anywhere. He’d been staring at it for months, through security camera footage, videos taken on civilian’s phones, in old photos that his division shouldn’t be _able_ to get their hands on. He practically snarled the name, his own hands coming up to clench the bars. 

“ _Winchester._ ”

The name echoed in the dungeon and it took the agents a few moments to process what they were seeing. When they did, it was like a shockwave blasted through them.

Agent Roth’s temper got the better of him as he shouted across the hallway- _how the fuck, you fucking murderous phycopathic bastard-_ while Laurens went stiff and tense, the loathing clear on her face. She had known one of the brother’s victims, a reason of why she was so driven to capture them. Agent Scott stumbled away in shock, his hands shaking from a mixture of fear and adrenaline, sliding down the cold stone wall.

Victor Henrikson could do nothing but stare and stare. After days and _months_ of searching they find one of them in this insane set up, obviously injured, wounds that were most likely delt by the very people who captured the FBI team. 

Sam Winchester simply stood there, visibly trembling from holding himself upright. He looked more tired than anything else. His forehead rested on the cold bars clenched tight in his hands. The younger of the brothers was wearing a torn up plaid shirt- _blue and white with gray undershirt-_ along with dark jeans and shoes. Oddly enough, they were the same clothes he’d been sighted wearing almost two and a half weeks ago, right down to his socks.

He’d been captured _two and a half weeks ago._

_Or_ Winchester was part of some elaborate set up, superficial wounds and great acting, along with an outfit he was seen wearing by the people that came to arrest him and his brother. 

From months of monitoring surveillance footage, watching their faces, their shifts from personality to personality, Victor knew this may well be the case. 

Dean Winchester was the charmer, always with a cocky response and pop culture reference. He appeared to others as a people person, someone to talk to, someone you could get a few drinks with and talk about the game.

Sam Winchester was always on the victims side. He was open and empathetic, soft questions and reassurances. He could fool anyone, even the most paranoid bastard, into trusting him.

And then, with the drop of a hat, it was gone. Gone were the officers, the plumbers, the office workers and college students. The masks fell during the fight and Henrikson knew what they were. 

Killers. 

Cold-blooded, psychopathic, satan-worshipping killers. And he wasn’t going to trust this scared and hurt college student act for one second. He could only hope that his fellow officers did the same.

Henrikson glanced back at Sam, only to see that he wasn’t looking at the agents anymore. He had moved to the corner of his cell and was staring through the bars, his eyes wide and scared. 

Sam was watching the small cell that was next to the agents’, peering into the darkness. The other officers seemed to have recovered from the shock of seeing one of the _most wanted murderers in the same fucking room at them_ and had joined Henrikson at his post by the bars. 

Agent Scott nervously glanced towards the adjoining cell and voiced the concerns they were all thinking. 

“What are you looking at?” Henrikson remembered the figure he’d seen when he had first woken up and turned towards the younger Winchester. 

“Is your brother here too?” He asked. As if his words had triggered it, a raspy cough echoed through the space and there was the clink of chains from the cell next to him, causing Scott to flinch away, his face pale and anxious in the weak light.

It may have been a mistake to take such a young agent on a mission, but he tested as one of the best and was very enthusiastic when he heard that he may have an opportunity to help track down the Winchesters. So Henrikson had made an exception. Looking at Brian Scott now, he couldn’t help thinking of his own first mission, one that hadn’t been nearly as high scale as this.

Agent Henrikson signaled to Laurens, hoping she would get the message and stand in front of Brian, while he and Roth went closer to investigate the sound. As they neared the bars, close enough to look inside, what he saw made his stomach turn. 

Dean Winchester was slumped, half sitting up with his arms stretched up above him. He was chained by his wrists, the thick metal cuffs rubbing his skin raw, thick rivulets of blood drying on his arms. 

His feet were bare, a ragged flannel and a pair of jeans covering him, and through the gaps in the fabric Henrikson could see burns and cuts that were just beginning to scab. His left foot was twisted at an odd angle, the ankle clearly broken. 

Out of all of this, his face was the worst. There was a thick scab- _still seeping blood-_ that ran from his temple to jaw. His hair was coated in blood and grime, his nose bloody and bruised. But it was his right eye that made Henrikson almost step back. 

It looked like someone had torn it out. There was deep scarring surrounding the socket, scars that went in vertical lines like claw marks- _or nails._ Any flesh left in it was charred black, as if a white hot poker had been taken to it. 

His other eye was swollen and bruised, although not so bad that he couldn’t see out of it. Dean’s remaining orb watched them, not wary or angry but more confused. Like he couldn’t place who they were and wasn’t very bothered by it. 

Henrikson snapped out of his shock when he heard the younger Winchester calling out again.

“Is he breathing? Please Henrikson, I need to know.” The desperation and fear in his plea made his voice sound like that of a scared, innocent person and Henrikson almost believed him for a moment.

His legs felt weak as he stumbled away from the bars. Agent Roth had taken a pace back but still stood open mouthed and staring, his face as white as a sheet. Laurens watched from her position, Scott stiff as a board behind her. Henrikson whirled towards the bars, the stress and fear transforming itself into anger as he glared at the pale face opposite to him.

“What the hell is this?” He punctuated his words by waving his arms, trying to encompass the entire nightmare in one gesture. “Some kind of elaborate set up?” 

“Henri-”

“And those people? How does that work?” A slightly hysterical laugh bubbled past his lips. “Are you threatening them? I wouldn’t be that surprised.” 

Sam stood there silently, his face a mask of stone. “You wouldn’t believe us if I told you.” 

Henrikson shook his head vigorously, the other agents now watching, Laurens still standing in front of Scott. “If you say demons, I swear to God-”

“It’s the truth!” Winchester shouted it, his voice echoing through the room, his hand clanging against the steel bars in front of him. The agents flinched back, Henrikson’s mouth snapping shut as the younger Winchester carried on. “It’s the goddamned truth and you won’t even try to believe it.” 

Carl stepped forward, sneering as he spat towards the bars. “You’re a crazy fuckin’ bastard and you and your brother deserve anything you got from those people out there.”

“ _Those people_ are possessed! You knew that blonde woman and you _know_ that wasn’t her! They’re not human anymo-”

He was cut off as Holly shouted back at him. “That’s what you told all those people you killed, didn’t you. That they’re monsters, that they have to die.” 

The Winchester brother stared back at her, his face pale and mouth gaping open. The silence was deafening as Henrikson watched him, the agents tense around him. Sam’s mouth was opening and closing, but no words came out. He swallowed a few times before taking a deep breath and stepping away from the bars. 

“We haven’t killed any innocents.” His voice was cold and low, shoulders hunched as he slid down the wall. “You can rest assured with that.” 

Laurens barreled on. “And who decides that they weren’t innocent? You? Your brother? The two of you are killers, not the judge, jury, and executioner.” 

The small room rang with the echoes of her accusation, Laurens standing tall by the bars, her frame shaking with anger. Scott had backed even further into the shadows, sitting with his knees to his chest and staring into Dean’s cell. 

A rough, weak cough broke through the silence.

Sam’s head shot up and in an instant he was on his feet again, knuckles white around the bars.

“Dean! Can you hear me?” Another cough sounded in response. Sam’s eyes shot to Victor, wide and pleading. “Henrikson. Please.”

He felt rooted to the spot, caught between the glaring looks from Roth and Holly and the desperate one from the younger Winchester.

_No._

He was not going to _check on him,_ this whole scared little brother thing? It was an act.

An _act._

Just one more of those easily replaceable masks, one more costume put on and shown to the actor’s victims. 

“ _Please._ ” Sam’s voice was the perfect idea of fear and concern, his face pale and body shaking. “Please, I know you hate us Henrikson, but we’re _still human_.” 

He didn’t move, forcing his expression into one without emotion, keeping his hands- _don’t clench them don’t clench them relax relax relaxrelaxrelax-_ resting at his sides. 

“No.”

“What?” His reply was breathless and so _utterly_ confused that Henrikson almost believed him.

“No, you’re not human.” 

He ignored the way Winchester sucked in a breath, the barely perceptible gasp from behind him. He ignored them all, simply returned the shocked gaze across from him with an even one of his own.

The silence stretched.

The wheezing of the older Winchester’s lungs was the loudest thing in the dim room.

Finally it was Agent Laurens that scoffed and turned on her heel, marching towards the bars that surrounded Dean. She dropped to her knees beside him, forcing her hand between steel bars, the stone cold mask never wavering once. 

Roth cautiously followed, Henrikson abandoning his post as he joined him, Scott watching from his spot by the wall.

As he drew nearer, Henrikson could see that the younger agent was taking his pulse, her other hand clenching one of the chains.

The older Winchester was watching Laurens from his place on the floor, not even wincing as she moved his wrist this way and that, assessing the damage.

“Carl. Get me a water bottle.” Henrikson swung his gaze to Agent Roth, who glared at Laurens’ back. She turned, exasperation clear on her face. “Carl. Water bottle. Now.” 

“What the fuck happened to the whole ‘the two of you are killers’ thing?” He snorted, disgust on his face. “Did his little boy act trigger your womanly instinct?” 

_You arrogant asshole._

Laurens spun and stood in one smooth move, stalking right up to Roth’s face, jabbing a finger into his chest. 

“You can shut the hell up. This is a bad situation and we don’t know what is going on, but that is no excuse to be a _misogynist douche_ in the middle of an operation.” She turned towards Henrikson now. “I trust he’ll be written up for this when we get out of here.” 

It wasn’t a mistake that she said _when_ and not _if_.

All he could do was nod.

There was the distinctive crinkle of plastic from behind them, the three agents turning to see Scott, hand outstretched and holding a water bottle. 

Laurens took it without a word, quickly kneeling beside Dean again. She set it beside her and pulled her jacket from her shoulders, ripping the left sleeve off without hesitation. They watched as she carefully unscrewed the top and poured a little of the precious water onto the thick cuff. Leaning in carefully, she wiped at the older Winchester’s face, Sam staring anxiously from his cell.

The first few times she dabbed at his eyes, Dean didn’t react, barely aware of the agent’s existence. Holly got a little more water on the cloth, wringing the excess onto Dean’s hair- _they couldn’t waste any-_ before continuing to clean the dried blood and grime off. This time, he flinched away from her, hands trying to move and block his face, stopped only by the thick chains. 

_He flinched._

_Dean Winchester flinched._

This situation was more screwed up than Henrikson had thought. He tried to tamp down the doubts rising- _it's a trap, there’s no way in Hell any of this demonic shit it real-_ but he didn’t quite manage to. All past experiences with these brothers told him that it was fake, some bullshit act.

A beautifully crafted play.

But thinking back to Jeanene and her “henchmen”- _God, that sounds stupid just thinking about it-_ he wasn’t too sure. 

Laurens had paused from where she sat, her hands still within the bars but no longer reaching towards Winchester. She waited as he struggled to open his eye, wincing at the bright light, before speaking. 

“My name is Holly Laurens, I am an FBI agent.” She paused, making sure she looked Dean in the eye. “I am going to help you.” Laurens spoke slowly and clearly, making sure Dean could still see her hands as she did.

He stared back up at her, face a blank mask. Holly met his gaze, careful not to shift from her position. 

Henrikson was suddenly reminded of an old Western movie, two cowboys facing off before they shot. 

Finally, Dean nodded, just the barest dip of his head. Henrikson wasn’t the only one letting out a breath of relief. Laurens leaned in again, telegraphing her movements as she did. She didn’t pause when he winced, only took a little more care with the spot. Pausing only to wet the cloth again, she continued onto his wrists, even pouring a little water onto them to loosen the blood and make the whole job easier. 

The rest of him she couldn’t do much for, with his broken leg and the various cuts along his body. The agents had no way to bandage him and Dean could do nothing to help, although he was now conscious enough to speak. 

“Thanks.” It was only one word and the man sounded like he was one cut away from keeling over and dieing, but that’s all it took to make Sam Winchester grin like it was a childhood Christmas. 

“Dean!” 

The effect on the older Winchester was immediate. He looked more aware then he’d seen him yet, trying to sit up despite the chains. 

“Sammy? Are yo-” The rest of his sentence got cut off with a thick cough, turning his head and pressing in as best he could into his arm. This only made Sam look more anxious, but he still replied readily enough. 

“I’m fine.” Henrikson looked to Sam and saw him craning his neck, straining for a good view of his brother.

That concern, it was almost…

_Normal._

“You’re lyin’.” Dean’s words were slurred, his head dropping closer and closer to his chest. “Don’t lie to me, I’m your big brother.” 

The younger Winchester smiled sadly through the metal- _another mask?-_ and Henrikson could see his posture relaxing. “Sleep, Dean. Rest.”

Dean had already fallen asleep from the looks of it, head lolling on his neck. Laurens stood quietly and backed away, turning to sit at the far end of the small room. Carl stopped her before she could.

“Why the fuck did you do that?” 

Laurens pulled her arm out of his grip and stepped away, anger clear on her face.

“Because they’re still human.” She glared at Henrikson as she spoke. “And because their story about demons might not be as crazy as it seems.” The agent sat now, leaning against the cold wall and closing her eyes. 

“Agent Laurens?” It was Sam. Holly glanced at him and nodded for him to continue. “Thank you for that.”

“Don’t thank me.” She opened her eyes as she responded. “You killed my friend.” 

Sam was silent for a moment before slowly shaking his head. His gaze rose to meet hers, wide and sad. “No, we didn’t. We’re not killers.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

There was no response from the other cell.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I had a hell of a lot more time to type then I thought I would, so here is the next chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

They had a few hours of peace, Sam silent on his side and Dean unconscious on his. Scott had taken off his jacket and rolled it into a pillow, his legs stretched out and almost touching the bars. Roth was now sitting, along with Laurens, neither moving except to eat half a granola bar and a few sips of water. Henrikson was slumped against the stone wall, finding it a bit warmer than steel bars. 

Of course, it only lasts so long.

And in this case, they’d mistaken the quiet for peace. 

The door’s locks disengaged, the agents becoming alert simultaneously as it swung open. It wasn’t Jeanene who stood in the doorway this time, only another man, his clothing a generic suit. 

The man stalked towards the cells, a ring of keys swinging in his hand. Henrikson rose halfway, ready to lunge as soon as the door was unlocked. He didn’t have to check to be sure that his team had done the same. 

The man only smirked, coming to a stop at Dean’s cell. 

“Oh, don’t you worry, it will be your turn soon enough.” The way he smiled, showing all his teeth, reminded Henrikson of a wolf, of something vicious and untouched by humankind.  _ There’s something off about him too.  _ Henrikson couldn’t place what, but his thoughts kept circling back to Agent Laurens’ words earlier.  _ ‘And because their story about demons might not be as crazy as it seems’.  _ A movement from the other cell drew his attention away from the agents in front of him. “Sam. Always worried for your dear brother.”

The younger Winchester was standing again, hands clenched at his side. His face was white and tense as he glared at the man speaking. “You know me. Just looking out for him.” His words were conversational.

His tone? Not so much. 

The man smiled, flipping through the keys in his hand. “Of course. I’m sure you’ll enjoy doing that from inside there.” He unlocked the cell with a clank, not hesitating as he strode into the confined space and began to undo Dean’s manacles. 

Although the man’s body blocked most of his view, Henrikson could Dean’s eyes fluttering, head turning away as the steel loosened on his wrists. Their jailor stepped back for a moment before grabbing Dean’s shoulders and yanking him up, so hard and fast that the older Winchester had no chance to prepare for it. 

A soft groan escaped Dean’s mouth as his legs buckled, the man not even pausing as he dragged him to the door. 

Even Agent Roth winced at the harshness of it. 

“Wait!” It was Sam, a flash of desperation on his face quickly covered and swept away. “Wait.”

_ There it is. The Hunter. _

Sam stood steady, his hands relaxed at his side as he lifted his chin and leaned forward. He was at ease, no twitching or shifting, just ready for anything. It was the only thing that stayed consistent in all the witness’ accounts.

There was always at least one moment, _one_ _minute_ , where the brothers used this mask. 

Or maybe it wasn’t a mask, and they were just letting it drift to the surface.

It was the moment that they were truly dangerous. 

The brothers were predators stalking prey, not the other way around.

And to all the world, Sam Winchester was a lion, watching as an angry gazelle strides towards his cage. 

And this man in a suit seemed truly oblivious to it. So assured in himself, he couldn’t see danger if it danced naked in front of him.

But the guard did have a job. It was not to make conversation with the captives when he had a prisoner to bring upstairs.

“If you wanna hang out, I’m off my shift in five,” the man smirked. “I’ll be back for you, don’t worry.”

Henrikson watched as he reached down to where Dean lay curled in on himself, trying to breath. With inhuman strength, he grabbed the back of the older Winchester’s collar and hauled him to his feet, giving him a shake as he did. 

“Just gotta drop off a package.” With that, the man turned and stalked through the doorway, dragging Dean behind him. He paused only to slam the door shut, a loud clunk following as the lock engaged. 

A moment passed, Henrikson stood still in the cell, waiting for a scream, a crash,  _ anything, _ to sound on the other side. Sam was standing too, eyes flicking from the ceiling to the door, hands clenched at his sides. 

Then came the thud of footsteps.

Very faint, only one set. 

Sam cocked his head, the movement reminding Henrikson of when a cat begins to play with its food.

A moment later, the door swung open, shutting and locking behind the same guard who’d retrieved Dean. He strolled over to Winchester, hands in his pockets.

“So now what? Want to beg for mercy?” The man was sure of himself, a sneer on his face as he looked through the bars. “Oh please, please let us out! I p-promise we won’t try t-to fight you!” His voice was high pitched and shaky as he mocked Sam, pretending to cringe away from some imagined blow coming from above. “I don't think so.”

Henrikson watched with bated breath as Winchester simply stood unmoving. The man leaned even closer, resting his arms against the bars as he smiled and opened his mouth again. 

That.

That was the mistake.

In an instant, Sam had grabbed the man’s jacket with one hand, the other reaching towards his throat as he forced his head to the steel bars. The suited man’s eyes were bulging, choking as he scrambled for purchase on the smooth ground. Sam bared his teeth in the imitation of a smile and leaned to meet him.

His voice was just loud enough for the now standing agents to hear. 

“Care to beg for mercy?” 

Out of what seemed thin air, another man appeared, the door thrown open and rebounded off the wall. He rushed forward, sending Sam stumbling backwards with a sharp blow to his arms, one hand clenching at his side while the other braced his fall. 

The newcomer hauled the other to his feet and looked around the room, meeting the eyes of all the prisoners as his own turned black.

_Black. Just like how those shell shocked witnesses had described them._

“ _ Pathetic. _ ” If Henrikson had to describe it in anyway, the only thing to say was the he  _ hissed _ at them, expression unlike anything he’d ever seen. An anger, not unlike Jeanene’s, was there. “Always thinking you can win.”

Without another word, the two men picked Dean up from where he lay on the ground- _ dried blood cracking and new blood flowing- _ and left the room, the door slamming shut after them. 

The stillness left behind was complete, the agents barely breathing. Sam was the first one to break it, standing up completely, a faint smile on his face.

“I don’t think. I know.” His fist opened, the ring of keys dangling from his fingers. With a deftness that defied his earlier stumble, he reached through the bars, quickly inserting a key into the lock and turning it. 

_ He’d had this planned the whole time. _

Sam stepped out, ducking his head to go under the doorway. Without pausing, he strode straight to Henrikson, stopping only a foot away from the bars. Perfect range. He could stay close and speak to them without giving the agents an opportunity to grab the keys. 

Though the younger brother was tall in surveillance camera footage, he was somehow more massive up close. 

“I’m going to let you out.” Sam was making sure to make eye contact with all the team while he spoke- _ making a connection with victim and all that _ -eyes landing last on Henrikson. “Before I do, you will each promise to do exactly as I say.”

“And why would we do that?” It was Roth, although he wasn’t as abrupt as he’d been earlier, his voice still came out sharp. He resisted putting a warning hand on Roth’s shoulder- _ don’t make the psychopath angry _ \- but it might be seen as a sign of weakness by Sam.

When dealing with predators you don't show weakness. 

“Without me, none of you will make it out alive.” He met their gazes evenly. “Remember that man’s eyes? Do you believe me now?” 

Laurens was the first one to respond, stepping forward and raising her chin, ignoring Henrikson’s warning shake of the head. “We’ll do it.”

Sam only nodded, flipped to a silver key and unlocking the cell door. He moved back as they exited, standing between Henrikson and his men and the door.  _ Smart move. _ It was almost on instinct, the way they stood. Henrikson and Carl at the front, for brute force. Brian and Holly in the back, ready to pick off or injure the attackers. 

Except that they didn’t have their guns.

And Winchester definitely noticed, shifting into a fighting stance, his hands open and at his sides.

_ Unarmed.  _

He had asked them to trust him, to follow his orders. So they would, Henrikson decided. Just until they out out of the building. With a quick signal from his hands, the team relaxed and stepped out of formation, Henrikson conceding leadership with a nod. 

Sam turned after glancing across the rest of the team, making sure they were well and truly standing down. He fit a heavy key, the last one on the ring, into the lock. Quietly, with painstaking slowness, he turned it, the lock disengaging with a metallic clank. 

Winchester leaned against the door, pressing his shoulder into it and straining as it opened inch by inch. Without prompting, Henrikson joined him, Laurens following silently behind.

In front of them was a short hallway, the walls made up of plywood and plaster. There was very little light, all of which was coming from the crack under a door, which stood at the top of a stairway. White paint was peeling from the door and you could see nails coming out of the edges of each floorboard. Henrikson took this all in in an instant, stepping closer to Sam and signalling behind to his team.

Laurens passed along the command, telling Agents Scott and Roth to move in and leave the door open behind them. They didn’t plan on returning and had no need to cover their tracks. 

Quietly, moving in a half crouch, Henrikson advanced down the hallway, trusting his team to follow behind him. Before he could get very far, a hand grabbed his upper arm, their grip like iron. Turning quickly, expecting to see Roth trying to contest his plan, he found Sam’s face inches from his own. 

Winchester leaned close to him, eyes narrowed and staring into his. Henrikson refused to flinch, even as the man bared his teeth in response to the agent’s scowl. He refused to flinch, because that’s not what you do when someone tries to back you down. Especially when they are a dangerous person to have against you. 

“You will follow what I say. You will do what I do,” Winchester practically snarled. “I am the commander in this situation, and unless you want to have your throat slit, you will listen to my orders. Got it?” He paused, lifting his face away from Henrikson’s surveying the other agents. As after they murmured their assent, Sam turned his attention back to the man he held captive. “Got it?” 

Those eyes bored into him, Sam waiting until he nodded before releasing him. 

“So...what’s the plan?” It was Scott who spoke up, squaring his shoulders as Winchester turned to face him. 

“We have an element of surprise, up until the moment we open this door,” he said, nodding to the door at the top of the stairs. “It’s bolted shut from their side, so the only choice is to break it down. Agent Roth, you’re going to do that.”

“You just expect me to break down a door, just like that?” Carl was never very good at hiding his contempt towards other people. “You gotta be kidding me.”

Sam barely glanced at him when he responded. “You have training for that. Do whatever the fuck you want, but you’re the biggest besides me, and I don’t think I could charge up those stairs without passing out.” As he spoke, Henrikson noticed the younger Winchester was supporting himself very subtly against the wall, shoulder supported on the wood. 

He sent a warning glance towards the other agents, they needed to get out of here and do it fast.  _ Just go along with his plan. We can still take them in afterwards.  _ He tried to convey this all with his eyes, only getting a moment before Sam turned back to him.

“You’ll be right behind me. Chances are there is a guard posted right at the doorway. I will take them down, but I need you to look for something for me. It’s a knife, serrated edge, words carved into the blade.” He held his hands up to demonstrate the size. “As soon as you grab that, throw it to Laurens, who will be coming behind us and will remain in the doorway until the worst of the fighting is over. She will pass the knife to me.”

Sam turned to the youngest agent, who waited to hear his part without expression.

“You’re coming in last, so by the time Laurens moves in, we will have the demons subdued. As soon as that happens, I need you to look for bandages. As fast as you can.” He looked to Henrikson. “Any problems with that?”

_ A facade of consideration. _

_ As if what he thought would make any difference. _

“No problems.” He glanced over the rest of his team, making eye contact with each, a nod to Laurens. “Let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey my dudes  
> please leave comments if you noticed any mistakes or holes in the story line
> 
> Hope y'all liked it, it was the fastest I've written in a while


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter!! Here it is!
> 
> Hope y’all like it

Just like that, they were charging up the stairs, Roth lowering his shoulder and ramming the door, the fragile wood crumpling under his weight. Sam rushed in after him, shouting a sort of animalistic roar. Henrikson was only seconds after him, getting his first look into the room beyond. 

It was dim, windows broken and boarded up on the far side. In the corner stood an operating table, the limp body of Dean Winchester strapped to it. Demons were whirling in shock, hands going to weapons and eyes flicking black.

He took this all in in an instant, sprinting past the demon posted by the doorway and towards a table covered in the weapons.

_His weapons._

Bullet proof vests, rifles, hand guns, cuffs. All piled without care on top. 

Next to their gear was an even more weapons. Shotguns and pistols, lockpicks and daggers. And on top of it all, the knife Sam had described. A handle of wood, runes on the silver blade. He lunged forward and picked it up- _way fucking heavier than it looks-_ before dropping to the floor, narrowly avoiding a bullet to his brain. 

Without thinking, he spun and stood, grabbing a shoulder and stabbing- _angle straight into the heart_ -the man who’d shot. Blood spilled onto his hands and he pushed the demon off, kicking his legs out underneath him. 

Blood splattered onto his legs as the body fell, lighting up from the inside, eyes bulging. The wound was _smoking._

“Henrikson!” It was Sam, across the room, grappling with a demon of his own. “The knife!” 

Winchester’s voice broke him from his thoughts, from his staring and staring. Forcing his body into motion, he tossed the knife towards him, not hesitating as he turned again, this time towards the guns.

Namely, towards the Winchester’s guns. 

Grabbing the first one he felt, he cocked it and whirled, taking a shot off before he even looked. 

Right into the chest of a demon. 

The force of the shotgun at such close range sent him falling back, a hole going straight through his chest. Blood spilled onto his jacket, the thing inside that body coughing as more spilled over his lips. Then it smirked.

“You really thought that would stop me?” The wound was healing, skin rippling back into place. It planted a hand behind it, pushing itself to its feet. “Such ignorant little-”

The head spun away, torso and legs crumpling to the ground. 

Sam stood in front of him, panting, the knife slowly lowering to his side. His clothes were spattered with blood, a gash on his shoulder. 

Henrikson lowered the shotgun, trying to catch his breath and look around. The rest of his team were where they were supposed to be. Laurens in the doorway, Scott right behind her. Carl stood beside a body, broken pipe in hand. 

Jeanene lay in the ground in a corner, a neat stab wound in the center of her torso. 

Henrikson had to look away. He’d deal with the guilt later, once they got out of here.

“All clear?” Scott called, Laurens still in a fighting stance in front of him. 

Henrikson watched as Sam cast a look around, kicking a body with his foot. 

“All clear.” 

Laurens and Scott quickly joined them, the younger agent branching off to the table of weapons and the wall of cupboards above it. That was when he remembered the older Winchester brother, still tied down and unconscious on a steel operating table.

Sam was racing forward in a split second, reaching his brother and cutting through the leather straps with ease. 

Besides a few new slashes, Dean wasn’t much worse than the last time they’d seen him. Which isn’t saying much, considering how he’d looked last time. 

The younger Winchester was pulling him upright, ever so gently. 

“Dean?” His voice was so soft, _so concerned._

_Real. Not a mask._

“Dean, you gotta wake up, come on man.” Sam shook his shoulders, just hard enough for his head to move with it. 

Henrikson felt a hand on his shoulder, pushing him to the side. Laurens, arms full of bandages that Scott and found. 

“We need to treat him here. He won’t make it much longer if we leave him like this.” Her voice was authoritative, leaving no room for Winchester to argue.

And he didn’t.

Without pause, he scooped Dean into his arms, taking a few stumbling steps before laying him flat on the wooden floor. 

“We need to splint his ankle first.” Winchester’s words were now flat, cold. 

_Angry?_

Scott had already covered that, somehow finding two pieces of straight wood, the right length- _chair legs, of course-_ to go from foot to calf. Sam took them, laying them down on either side of his brother’s twisted foot. 

Henrikson stood back by Agent Roth, feeling as if they were intruding as Sam leaned forward and spoke softly to Dean.

“This is gonna hurt a helluva lot, but it’ll be quick.” His hands went around Dean’s ankles, one applying increasing pressure on the bone, the other keeping his leg in place. The bone snapped into place with an audible pop, the older Winchester starting upward and groaning.

Before Dean came to full consciousness, Sam lifted his leg using one hand, unrolling gauze and wrapping it tightly. He secured it by tucking the end under the wrap, cutting off what remained and quickly reaching for the wood again.

“Sam? Wha’ you doin?” Dean’s voice was slurred and thick, his green eyes half open and just as much aware. He was trying to lift his head, straining to look around him.

“Fixin’ you up.” Winchester moved so his brother could see him better, leaning over him. “Don’t move too much, you’ll be just fine.” 

The older brother only dropped his head back to the ground, lolling to one side. 

The agents watched as he once more braced the wood slats on either side, wrapping the roll of gauze around tightly, tying it with a knot this time. 

Now came the issue of Dean’s cuts. The cuts were straight and deep, one going across his collarbone, some peppering his arms, and more on his legs. Sam sat back onto his heels, surveying his brother. 

“They’re gonna need stitches.” His voice sounded less tense, shoulders slumped as he sighed. “Is there a medical kit where you found the gauze?” He didn’t look at any of them as he spoke.

Scott only silently stepped forward, offering a white tin, the red cross still bold and bright on the fading paint. The lid was already open, showing thick gauze pads, along with disinfectant and tape. Underneath that all, a few needles. Still in a plastic container, waiting to be strung. 

Sam took the kit with only a glance and a nod, quickly turning back to Dean. His hands were confident and steady, stringing a needle and wiping at the cut.

_Experienced._

Henrikson beckoned his team, heading to a corner of the room, where their pile of gear still waited. They wasted no time strapping on vests and holstering their weapons. He’d made sure his team could- _and would_ -work together in stressful situations. Looked like the extra training paid off. 

By the time they’d finished, Winchester had already patched up Dean, gauze pads taped over rows of neat, little stitches. The older Winchester, for his part, was unconscious on the floor, either from exhaustion, starvation, or both.

“Now what?” Carl had stepped forward, a grim expression on his face. 

“Now, we find a truck that can fit all of us and I find a place for us to lay low for a few days.”

“A few days? We’ve been missing for a few days, we sure as shit aren’t gonna follow wherever you want to go.” His tone of voice hadn’t changed, but his stance had. Hands clenched, shoulders up, dominant foot forward. Roth was spoiling for a fight. 

And he wasn’t going to get one.

Henrikson intervened before Sam could respond or- _god help us_ -Agent Roth could say much more. 

“Look, we have to get back to our stations. We’ve missed all the check ins for our mission and there are likely search teams out for us now. You and your brother are the primary suspects and people want to bring you in.” He made sure to keep his voice measured. Even. That was the key in diffusing a situation before it even started. 

“You all have minor injuries. You’re all dehydrated, tired, hungry. Dean is hurt and none of us know where we are.” Sam looked directly at him as he spoke, tone leaving no room for argument. “If you turn up now, there will be more questions you won’t know how to answer. At _least_ give yourselves time to make a story.”

Laurens stepped forward, placing a hand on Henrikson’s shoulder before he could respond. 

“That sounds good, if only for a couple of days.” She tightened her grip on him as she went on. “We’ll do it. The two of you need help anyways.” Laurens nodded to the older brother, lying prone on the floor.

Sam didn’t argue with her statement, just looked towards Dean. 

Henrikson decided that the discussion had gone long enough and stepped forward, meaning to beckon Laurens and Sam, pick up Dean and leave before anymore demons arrived. 

Sam beat him to it, leaning down and scooping up his brother, carrying him bridal style. He took care that Dean’s arms didn’t hang down and instead were laying on his chest, head supported by Sam’s shoulder. 

Scott had the remainder of the Winchester’s weapons in his arms, the guns and knives piled high. Laurens moved quickly to assist him, grabbing a couple things at a time and distributing them to Agent Roth and Henrikson. They made short work of it, tucking the weapons into extra holsters, lockpicks and charms into pockets. 

The younger Winchester only stood by the doorway and watched, eyes flicking between them, as if marking where each weapon was stored. 

They joined him in silence, letting Sam lead the way as he opened another door, going down a long corridor and into the night. It was there where he paused. Surveyed the various rusting cars that lay on top of cracked asphalt and dying grass. 

He turned to them with a sigh, speaking quietly so he didn’t disturb his brother. 

“Most of these probably won’t start. Try to find a newer looking one, the less rust, the better.” 

They split up, moving through the junk yard in pairs, Laurens and Scott, Henrikson and Roth. Sam stayed with Dean, setting him down against the side of a car. Dean didn’t stir as he was lowered to the ground, head brushing against the metal behind him. 

It doesn’t take long for Carl to find a car in decent condition, he always had an eye for those sorts of things. It looked to be some kind of company van, faded lettering in green paint on one side. 

The younger Winchester looked over it with a critical eye, even going so far as to open the hood and examine the engine, squinting in the dim light. He must have decided it was usable- _thank God, he did not want to stand around for much longer, his agents being silhouetted as the tallest things in this creepy ass field-_ because he slammed the hood back down and moved to pick up Dean again. 

Laurens quickly got to work with hotwiring the van _-best in the class-_ and soon had the engine rumbling. It didn’t take long to figure out the seating arrangements either, seeing as Sam was the only one who knew where to go and Henrikson would sooner be dead then have Agent Roth sit next to Winchester. 

That left Scott, Laurens, and Roth with the task of keeping the older Winchester steady as they drove to whatever “safehouse” Sam was talking about. The road was unpaved and filled with potholes, occasional rocks in the middle for _no goddamn reason._

Thankfully, the drive was shorter than expected, only half an hour with Sam breaking all the speed limits. When Roth remarked that it was worse for Dean to go over the bumps quickly, even going as far to imply that _maybe you’re trying to get rid of him quicker, huh? Wounded brother too much of a burden for a physcopath like you, I’d be surprised if he lasts longer than-_

It was an exercise of restraint to not turn around and clock him in the head with his gun. 

_Are you really antagonizing the very, very, VERY dangerous person who is_ driving _this car? Are you fucking insane?_

Evidently, yes.

Sam only gritted his teeth and took a breath before responding. 

“I figured it would be better to get him to safety instead of having him die in the back of a van.” His eyes stayed on the road, knuckles white around the steering wheel. Henrikson’s hand strayed to his gun. He was fairly sure Sam wouldn’t send the car careening off a cliff, not with his brother inside, but you could never be too careful. “Are the bumps bothering you?”

His tone was so flat and toneless, one could almost mistake for uncaring. 

There wasn’t a response from Carl in the back, Laurens smirking as he scowled.

_Smart, for once._

Henrikson didn’t bother saying anything, only kept a sharp eye on the road, quietly pointing out the bigger dips, those easily missed. Winchester didn’t say anything, occasionally nodding as he maneuvered around them.

When they finally pulled up to a ramshackle house, the famous Impala parked close against the side and almost completely covered with a sheet, he could practically see the tension in the air. 

Roth sat stiff and angry in the back, like a pot about to boil over. Sam, by contrast, almost seemed at ease. He moved smoothly as he got out of the van, loose and calm as he walked around to the back.

Calm, like the sea before a storm. 

Henrikson swallowed back a curse and quickly followed, beckoning his agents out after Winchester opened the back doors. Scott was still carrying the medical kit and a smear of blood ran down his arm. A look to Laurens dissuaded the idea that it could be his own. 

He signaled for them to step back as Sam lifted up his brother, Roth almost scoffing at the gentleness he displayed. 

They followed in line as Winchester led the way to the house, kicking the door open with his foot, the interior dim and dusty. Before Roth could enter, Henrikson pulled him aside, ignoring Roth’s swearing as he was pulled down the steps.

He went to sneer in Henrikson’s face, but he beat him to it. 

“I don’t know what the hell you think you’re doing, but you need to stop right now.” He was practically snarling in Roth’s face. “This is a mission, not some family reunion where you antagonize the in-laws that you hate. He’s dangerous and you’re putting everyone’s lives on the line by taunting him.”

“He’s a fucking physcopa-”

“He’s a killer, yes. He’s a very smart one too. At this point, if either of the Winchester brothers decide to shoot you in the head and bury your body in some _fucking ditch_ , I don’t think I’d stop them.” Henrikson paused, fighting for composure. I mean, you can’t just go around giving death threats to your coworkers. _If only._ “When we get back and debrief, I’m asking for your demotion. Your actions have been unprofessional and really, just plain stupid. Get yourself together and act like you know what your job is.” 

He turned back to the house and stalked in, forcing himself to keep walking even as he heard Carl’s muttered curse and snort. 

Henrikson was still fuming as he followed the light up the stairs of the house, into one of the dipulated bedrooms, a small lamp providing light. 

Sam was restitching some of Dean’s wounds, his steady hands quickly forming rows of neat, little stitches. Scott held a damp rag, gently wiping away blood as it seeped from the cuts.

Laurens met him in the hallway, a water bottle and what appeared to be a can of chicken soup in each hand. She smiled at his inquiring look and quietly assured him they’d already eaten as she handed him the food. A spoon was pressed into his hands as he sat, head suddenly pounding as he leaned against the wall.

He barely noticed his surroundings as he ate, the last few days catching up to him. At some point, someone took the can and plastic bottle away, both empty. At some point, Carl came inside and was led to another room, food pressed into his hands as well. At some point, Sam calmed Dean when he woke up, explaining the situation quietly.

Henrikson didn’t know any of this, he was already asleep. 

\---------------

He woke up to a tentative hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him. His eyes opened slowly to see Scott, his own eyes blurry and tired, looking down at him. 

“Hey, it’s about six in the morning. Thought you’d want to get up, Laurens figured out where we are.” 

He was up in an instant, following Scott down the stairs to what would have been a living room, if this house were occupied. Sam, Laurens, and Roth stood around a table, papers and a couple maps strewn across it. 

Laurens was already speaking to him, knowing the reason why he came down so fast.

“We’re only about an hour’s drive from the nearest town, another two from the nearest headquarters.” She grinned, relief flooding her face as it really sunk in. “We can leave within the hour.” 

_Thank God. This fucking nightmare of a week is over._

They didn’t have much to pack, their heavy equipment left in their own car _-hopefully not destroyed and soon to be found-_ and what they had with them could easily be stashed in the back of the van. 

The agents made quick work of it, unloading rifles and stacking them together, vests going on and handguns into holsters.

It wasn’t that he was anxious to get back, to deal with the shitstorm from his superiors about to hit him. There was just something off about the brothers, it was making him more on edge every moment they spent here. 

It may have been the way Sam walked or the little ways he shifted when the agents walked into a room.

It could have been the weapons that hung on Sam, even as they paused for lunch and shitty coffee from the packets in the kitchen.

Maybe it was the silence that hung around Dean’s room, even when Sam informed him that he was awake. 

But that was getting too much on the physiological side of things and Henrikson didn’t want to stray to a field of things he didn’t know much about.

So when his agents asked him why he was so jumpy, snapping at little things, he shrugged it off. Shouldered it and smiled, saying he was tired.

Technically that was the truth, he was really fucking tired of keeping track of where the Winchesters were at all times. 

So when they were finally all loaded up, Laurens in the passenger seat and himself in the driver’s, all he wanted to do was go home.

Sam approached the window, a grim smile on his face. Henrikson lowered the window, leaning to meet him.

“So what are you going to tell them?” 

He could almost imagine this was some normal conversation, something between a couple of coworkers or friends. 

_Almost, but not quite._

“The best lie I can come up with in the next hour.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!!
> 
> Constructive criticism welcome
> 
> Hope no one was disappointed by the lack of Dean, he was badly injured and I didn’t want to fuck up how wounded/annoyed Dean would act in this situation 
> 
> Also Sam is my favorite (apologies dearest friends)
> 
> Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought!

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I'm not a super fast writer, so the next chapter will be out around next month.
> 
> Please leave comments for suggestions and/or any mistakes you've noticed.
> 
> Thanks! Happy New Year!


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